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Post by Humble Chris on Apr 3, 2022 4:25:54 GMT
 Deliverance Day has come, but in the crowded alleys and on the creaking bridges and bustling piers of the Docks, it looked as though it didn't make a difference. Trade still flowed, business was still conducted, and sailors, dockworkers, and travelers alike all jostled and surged their way in one direction or another. Some were just disembarking and looking to get back their land legs with some cold beer and warm company. Others were bursting out of the doors of casinos, brothels and taverns in a desperate attempt to reach their ships before they set off - or were caught and dragged on to be crew of another. Cargo sailed overheard on the creaking ropes and magical support charms of great crane mechanisms. Everywhere one looked they could hear and see and smell a thousand different experiences. No two things on the Docks were the same, and yet they all blended together so well. Perhaps the only concession for the holiday was that most of the buildings along the dock had thrown up a Vynettian flag or a few red and gold scarves to mark the occasion. Some were even offering reasonable discounts and special rates - their "Deliverance Day Deals", for weary travelers and kinsmen alike. Off in the distance, beyond the Docks, the ships of the mighty Vynettian fleet were getting ready to put on a show. The thirty ships of the fleet, ranging from tiny and nimble carvels to the six prodigious galleons which were the pride of the navy, were coming together to put on a grand display of strength and patriotic pride. The ships sailed their patrol in perfect parade fashion; a line trailing from the tip of the Shipyards, all the way down south and around to the Vynnetian coast off in the distance. But all that is outside and in the bright sunlight. For now, you are in the dark and damp of the hole-in-the-wall tavern known as The Last Refuge. This dive has earned its name, as it would be the last place anyone would look for respite, or a clean glass. It is mercifully quiet, with only a few patrons besides yourself, the bartender, and his wife and children as they worked the back kitchen to prepare meals. |
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Post by Cyrus on Apr 3, 2022 6:54:17 GMT
The Last Refuge, indeed. It was pretty much the last place Cyrus wanted to be as well, but the patriotic holiday made things at places to grab grub busier than shit. Cyrus had taken up a table in the corner for four, sitting in the back corner where he had a good view of the doors. Golden eyes scanned the few patrons while he scooped cheap stew into his face with a hard crust of bread. A foot was up on the chair next to him, and he glanced across at the table to his masked companion.
"Lav."
Grin.
"You ever wanted to be a sailor, huh? With that spooky mask, we could put you up on the front like a figurehead. Or a ram. It'd make the fiercest shit their bloody britches. I hear recruiters are always out after the regatta. Pride of the fucking Navy, you'd be."
His lips smacked a bit as he chewed.
"No offence intended, of course, Dominé. Nothing wrong with britch-shitting. How do you like the grub?"
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Post by Lavandul on Apr 3, 2022 7:26:09 GMT
The Night Stalker's age seemed to be catching up with them, or at least that's what Cyrus could have guessed with the way the heavy steps seemed to crackle and dig into the wood of the floor boards. The chilly demeanor could almost be felt washing across the table, but nothing so pedestrian as being directed at an individual.
Dominé Lavandul, vigil to the evening star, was a candle burning at both ends.
"Make a crack about a crow's nest," they slurred in a smoky tone, and the seafaring criminal could almost picture the squint. Maybe the good priest was treating a hang over?
The table rattled as they sat, stooping over the edge as they waved a hand to the bartender waiting for them to pick a pitiable corner. The bowl was hauled close to their chest as they ticked the mask back enough to reveal the greying pallor of their skin. A new impressive stitch crinkled the normally smooth flesh into the angry knot of a rag being wrung.
"...I forgot your name," they admitted after a stretch, a scarred lip curling in embarrassment.
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Post by Cyrus on Apr 3, 2022 7:35:10 GMT
Heh. Crow's nest.
"That'd be low hanging fruit. Even for me."
The grin, though, revealed that he probably thought of it. He glanced away while the masked priest ate, choosing not to be a dick about what he suspected were religious beliefs relating to the mask. By the Wanderer, though, what little skin they showed was concerningly grey. Was it just a lack of sun?
"You usually grab brunch with motherfuckers whose names you don't remember?"
He shook his head.
"Jester's giblets, how much did you have to drink last night?"
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Post by Lavandul on Apr 3, 2022 7:52:25 GMT
Silently listing the herbs they could taste was a grounding exercise, though it was unfortunate that the bitterness meant the sage was dried and old. It didn't make any sense — it was literally growing in half the city's garden plots. You put it in a pan with butter. It wasn't a big ask.
They ran a tongue along the chipped incisor.
"I didn't realize it was forgotten until I tried to recall it."
It was then they remembered the hat, taking it off to rest it on the edge of the chair and mechanically tucking the white and silver strands back under the cowl. They failed, with most of it simply falling forward again. "I don't think that's how you treat a concussion, but the brothel has better baths than the inns."
They gestured to the gloves handing the bread, "You normally eat like that?" The spoon wasn't bothered with as they drank from the bowl like a mug. Despite the comment of it being odd, outdoor leather lining Lavandul's own hands mirrored the pirate's.
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Post by Cyrus on Apr 3, 2022 8:08:08 GMT
"Like what?" He hoisted his dagger and started cutting another chunk off the loaf. The knife work was quick and smooth, chopping off a chunk and hollowing out the inside to make a scoop. The center was dipped and pushed into his mouth, and he did not hesitate to talk with his mouth full. "With the gloves? I forgot about 'em. Tell you a secret: I don't like it when my fingers get crispy. You work outside enough in the rough, the skin cracks and it feels like shit. No amount of oils or unguents can fix it if you don't take care up front."
He took one of the gloves off and showed her his hand. It wasn't perfectly smooth, but it wasn't as calloused as most soldiers or sailors would have been.
"The name's Cyrus. Cyrus of Ghent."
Blink.
"You get in a fight or something? I don't usually see clergy nursing head injuries at breakfast. You short on healing?"
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Post by Lavandul on Apr 3, 2022 8:24:23 GMT
Their hand surged without much impulse control, casually turning the digits as if Cyrus had asked for a diagnosis. The touch was cold even through the gloves, which wasn't a trait the Aasimar was familiar with, but it had been more than a couple of years since they had raided the fallen port.
"Onions do just fine if you soak it in a cloth for a couple of days. Castor oil from the wastes if you can't stand the smell and need your sailors to have soft hands. Better handshakes."
There was another pause before they snickered. "Mnh, yes. The fight, not the magic... I don't need miracles to spare my vanity, and will heal up just fine without... the fuss." They did take their gloves off as they scratched at around the area with the prominent stitch, red lips forming a small 'o' as they mulled something. The split had travelled north and vertical, apparently, where they were missing a small chunk of their lip that had healed faster than the chin.
"I'll need a contract." The word was stretched out, pulling the common word from a jumbled bank. Lavandul also wasn't used to speaking so much — all this commotion it the last week was more conversation than they would normally stumble upon.
"Oh." Their head turned slowly and stiffly to take in the rest of the bar.
"Where's your crew?"
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Post by Cyrus on Apr 3, 2022 8:36:07 GMT
Her hands were cold. His were not. Warm from the gloves, as she handled his digits, they seemed to glow with golden light burning just beneath the skin. That light flowed from one to the other.
"Nothing miraculous about this, no matter what the Empire would have people believe about us. If all the horseshit they said about my people were real, it would be... I dunno. More. What a joke, that I can't cure it all for you."
He trailed off into a murmur, staring at his hands before replacing the gloves. She got to contracts and her crew, and he glanced up at her.
"Dead or captured, far as I know. Going to take a lot of work to find a new one, a lot of coin. What you got in mind?"
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Post by Lavandul on Apr 3, 2022 8:57:11 GMT
Between trying to take care of his pretty hands and bemoaning the legends of his blood not being able to fix their torn complexion, Lavandul was beginning to get the sense that the man was vain. Combined with the devil-may-care fronting while not wanting to be stared at by imagined eyes and expectations, it was a special kind of narcissism they were acquainted with.
Aasimar were slower to mature.
The black pits of the mask stared sightlessly past him, before the queer clergyman seemed to sag in their chair; pleased something had stuck. "You're identifying as Everaan now? That is..." the bowl hid most of their expression like the shade from a noble's fan. A Cheshire grin still snuck around the edges, with a surprising pearlescent quality to what one would expect something weathered and stained.
"...It's very funny."
What wasn't funny was the state of Cyrus' affairs. For one, it meant he didn't have much to immediately offer them. The pale, teeth-marked hand made a serpentine motion from face to throat. "Night comes for us all, but they'll find their way out if they're clever," the cleric offered. It wasn't much in the way of prayer, but frankly the Red Saint didn't seem in need of any reassurance. As the mercenary's business sense kicked in, so did Lavandul's posture, voice dropping to something less wispy and more familiar.
"It depends on how much effort you're willing to invest."
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Post by Cyrus on Apr 3, 2022 9:40:06 GMT
Cyrus's golden eyes rolled skyward, and he flipped the Bird the bird at the whole Everaan thing before ramming more food into his mouth. Perhaps the Totally-Not-Rat Stew and stale bread would make this moment go away.
"Last time I show you any vulnerability, padré. By the Empress's breath..."
She moved it along to business. The idea of the crew finding their way out was nice and all, but he didn't even have enough coin to armor himself properly. The sword was the only thing he had been able to save from the shipwreck. Everything else had been shitty gigs and stolen goods to make ends meet. How much was he willing to invest?
The Aasimar flashed her a smile.
"Rolling with a bona fide miracle worker? Plenty. But we gotta start somewhere. Did you hear about the prizes in the arena tonight?"
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Post by Lavandul on Apr 3, 2022 10:03:28 GMT
The hermit fixed the mask back in its place once the food was done, watching the storm cloud roil with mild fondness. It was a sensitive topic, and frankly the older cleric was seeking to spare themselves of Cyrus' public brooding that he would likely curse later; questioning your divine purpose in the world was for churches and bedrooms.
"Well, I am honoured you mistook me for someone helpful."
There was some dormant seed of humour beneath the frost, but they were clearly a little more jaded these days. The presence of celestial blood hit different when you weren't raised under the banner of the Imperator, and your line of work showed you strange secrets you never had the resources to dig into. Universities were for the elite and stable.
Now they just wanted to go back to bed.
The headache was bad as black motes popped and sparked across their vision, and they angled the chair just-so to lean against the wall. "I need to remove weight from the scale. Alas, the townsmen would be scandalized if I took it upon myself to claim brawler's heads for the Long Rest. Or are you asking me to rig your pot?"
They waited for an answer before elaborating their own vision for the future. "There's always something threatening the peace of the evening. If the city is having a celebration, a rich one looking to impress their friends and the public will likely pay premium to keep the skeletons in the canals."
Whether Lavandul was speaking of killing monsters or becoming a courier of blackmail was hard to tell.
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Post by Cyrus on Apr 3, 2022 18:02:05 GMT
The last of his stew disappeared with the Aasimar giving the priest a golden-eyed Spiteful Glance over the top of the bread-scoop he had fashioned. Apparently, they were In The Red according to whatever weird religious beliefs they had. Killing people to even out the scale? If they weren't clergy, they'd probably be a serial killer or something.
Not that Cyrus judged. He wasn't exactly Miss Congeniality, either.
"I figured we could compete. For gold, you know. But yeah. Your way would lead to surefire payment rather than a gamble. You sure you're good to go, though? No walls to hold you up if things get froggy on the streets."
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Post by Lavandul on Apr 3, 2022 19:03:49 GMT
The cleric spread their hands, "That's the same thing, Cyrus of Ghent. Either I'm performing blood sport in the arena, or the cosmic stage. Neither forgets the injury."
Oh, of course! Did he want to be noticed?
There was something there in gaining rapid attention for their talents rather than performing public service. Society loved symbols and familiar faces over any sort of monolithic concept of duty — no one gave a shit about the fact that a city guard worked consistently to protect lives over the celebrity. Work smarter, not harder.
"It sounds like you would rather get into a brawl than hunt down defilers. I can see how that would bring more notice than waiting for good work to speak for itself. Or- actually, you make a good point-"
Cyrus had said absolutely nothing.
"-I suppose seeing how I'm doing without courting death is a more practical in the grand scheme of things. Good thinking."
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Korruk
Visitor
Name: Korruk Logar Race: Orc Class/Level: Paladin 2 XP: 480 Maximum HP: 21 Alignment: Lawful Good
Posts: 98 
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Post by Korruk on Apr 3, 2022 23:42:26 GMT
“What do you mean I have to take them back to the house? On today of all days! What if we need to defend the honor of the Empire, huh?”
A complaint made in Orcish
The lad wore a long coat, beaten from the travel but clearly it was of some quality and not a peasants garment. It would withstand weather and road as well as any could hope. As a budding young Orcish man, the boy still stood near six feet, his arms strong - signaled by the ease at which he carried to the two crates of fruit he had.
“And what will you do, Dhakin? Shoulder the Emperor’s honor and challenge everyone who besmirches his name? By that measure we would have to duel most of the city and I for one do not have enough gloves to throw.”
Korruk chuckled, adjusting the buttons on his own coat to counter the cold breeze which rolled off the water. He turned and let a heavy hand fall on the boy's shoulder.
“We won’t be changing history by spoiling any parties, so instead get these apricots to Tordora and we can at least relish that this city is still built on the same pillars, plazas, and arcades our ancestors erected. Plus a bit of traditional cooking will be a more satisfying way to show our scorn - Now get.”
The Orcish exchange finished with Korruk nudging the lad to make his way back to their current residence in the city, but not before plucking a number of the Orgthengarrian Apricots and pocketing them. The young squire may have been grumbling, but such was the nature of feeling like the world was against you.
With deals in the market acted upon, it was high time to fetch a drink - and while there were no desirable establishments in the immediate area, he was sure that the nearest one would suffice. After all, sacrifices had to be made from time to time.
~~~
Entering The Last Refuge he understood the humour of the name. Standing noticeably over most, the natural gifts of the Orcish people did not lend themselves to subtlety. The coat he wore still buttoned to hide the purple lining and white stitches of the well made but well worn garment - no need to stoke people's pride with the flags which used to fly, as it was no day to appreciate history but fawn over victory.
Heavy steps and a long stride found the bar, and coppers were exchanged for a Brown Ale, even if it was of low quality. While he waited for the pour he opened his ears to the sift through the din of the tavern.
Miracle Worker, compete, gold
Quite the conversation, maybe something could come from getting to know the locals. He took his tankard and approached the duo.
“Sounds like the two of you are mulling over liberating Vynne and basking in the spoils.”
A smile was across the orcs face as he linked the arena to the celebratory theme of the show. The common he spoke leaned heavily to its roots, its inflection more formal than most and giving away that he came from some kind of station.
“And if it is the latter you are looking for I think we may have some shared goals.”
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Post by Lavandul on Apr 4, 2022 0:24:04 GMT
Bright eyes behind dark glass tracked the cues of Privilege. Their hands danced along the edge of the table, before they clasped them together,
"A wheel only turns with force," Lavandul hummed tiredly, frowning at how it sounded in Common. It was meant to be a proverb — No one's ever risen without some assistance. "Hello, Tall One. What brings you to this humble bar?"
It definitely wasn't the food.
"Have a seat, of course. I've been called Dominé Lavandul, Night Stalker of the Revelry. You're welcome to keep vigil with me."
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Post by Cyrus on Apr 4, 2022 0:43:37 GMT
The cleric got into the morality of it all before coming to the practicalities of the situation. He grinned and gave her a thumbs up once she got there. Sure, it might not have been all of the reason he was interested in doing the arena day, but the fact was it was money that probably wouldn't put his life at risk. As far as he was concerned, that was good enough. If he got to ask the Prince for one of those fancy galleons, then that was a cherry on top.
"Good to get paying work. Better to get paying work that you live through."
The orc's arrival caused Cyrus to look way up from his chair. He wasn't a short man to begin with, but orcs weren't a race one would casually call petite.
"Can't say I much care which side of the playground I'm on today, so long as it's the winning one. The name's Cyrus." He gestured at the orc with his half-full tankard. "Who are you?"
It was a blunt way to put it, but he took his foot off the extra chair. It was as much an invitation as any.
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Korruk
Visitor
Name: Korruk Logar Race: Orc Class/Level: Paladin 2 XP: 480 Maximum HP: 21 Alignment: Lawful Good
Posts: 98
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Post by Korruk on Apr 4, 2022 2:44:58 GMT
A nod was returned as he understood the invitation and pulled the chair out, and swung a leg over the top of it to place himself in position to take a seat with the duo, raising his tankared to the two of them as a gesture of good will.
“Not my usual haunt, no.”
No shame in admitting that.
“But the closest place with something that could qualify as a pairing.”
He reached into his pocket, pulling from it three apricots, all of which fit in his hand and which he displayed to them. Setting two of them in the middle of the table for Lav and Cyrus, keeping the third for himself.
“Korruk, Kurruk Logar. And here here, Cyrus - if the work pays well, and meeting the Mortician is off the table, who are we to thumb our noses at it? I was actually looking at the festivities today, and I saw myself a chance to line my pockets. The melee I mentioned, a good place to put martial talents to use, not worry about the legality of their use, and get a prize for all of it? Sounded like an opportunity.”
Taking a bite of the fruit in his hand with a twist as his teeth sunk in, ripped an halved the morsel, that satisfying fibrous crack coming with it along with the sound and smell associated with the fruit being pry apart, leaving Kor with a second half and the pit in his hand. Once chewed it was accompanied by the ale he had before setting it back down. A chance for the two of them to further measure him.
“But, someone with my complexion may be at a disadvantage if I go on my own. But if I had someone who I could count on to not jump me? Well I think we could benefit one another in pursuit of that prize.”
You scratch my back, I’ll scratch yours. A fair proposal in most cases.
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Post by Lavandul on Apr 4, 2022 6:18:11 GMT
The apricot smelled better than the soup. As the posh Orc said his piece, the clergyman sliced the fruit into slivers to have with the forgotten bread. They even pulled out a small leather wallet containing several colourful vials, and the smell of the tawny powder they sprinkled indicated Orgthengaar cinnamon from the Sourthern colonies. The mask lifted again to expose the knotted porcelain flesh along the chin and lip as they took a bite. Between an Everaan Aasimar and an Imperial blue blood, the would definitely draw some vicious heat. "Do you have family with you?" they blurted as the thought ran with them. "I am loathe to admit. The festival's notorious for assaults on Imperials." Their attention vaguely swept to see if the Orc was, in fact, ducking in to shake unwanted attention and currently more concerned with saving face. The hand on the edge of the table ghosted their fingers to double check for the war hammer shelved along the alcove next to the table "If you want in, we would have to hide your identity. If that is something you can humble yourself with."
Lavandul wasn't about to push the man to swallow his national and racial identity for some coin. |
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Post by Cyrus on Apr 4, 2022 7:18:38 GMT
Cyrus accepted the apricot, blowing it off with a quick breath before taking a bite of the juicy fruit. He let out a quiet groan of satisfaction and nodded to the Orc. Creatures were damned huge, weren't they?
"See, Dominé? Other people like fun, too."
He had a point about himself being at a disadvantage. In normal circumstances, he'd be one of the first targets and be lucky if he didn't find himself in a hospitaler's ward. The priest's explanation made sense to him, and he sat tall in his chair, a stone-cold look on his face as he sought to communicate that their table was not to be fucked with.
"She's not wrong. You've got a pair, I'll admit that, and if you can get to the tournament without getting mugged, I'd be curious to see how you fared on our side. You look like you could fell a tree with your bare hands."
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Korruk
Visitor
Name: Korruk Logar Race: Orc Class/Level: Paladin 2 XP: 480 Maximum HP: 21 Alignment: Lawful Good
Posts: 98
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Post by Korruk on Apr 4, 2022 7:58:09 GMT
“No need to worry about me and mine. No blood, but those I travel with can handle hardships. By no means am I looking to start petty brawls on matters settled long before I was born - but, if one finds me I have enough ability to handle myself.”
He shrugged, raising a thumb to run across one of the knots of scar tissue on his cheek. An unblemished warrior of the Empire was no warrior at all. The culture of Knights and Legions encouraging a certain level of aggression, and honoring the scars it bore.
“As for staying humble? A wise woman once told me actions speak louder than words, so I don’t see a need to make any formal announcements in such an informal setting. Just walk through those gates, wear the red and gold, and make some coin. Isn’t that the spirit of Vynne?”
A tusked grin crossed his face, saying he had no issue with declarations or heraldry. The only introduction that was needed could be left in the sand.
“And never tried felling a tree to be perfectly honest, haven’t had one cross me yet. When one does though, you’ll be the first to know the results.”
A chuckle at the small jest of fighting a tree.
“But as for business - I have no doubts in my ability to make it to the show, and I give you my word I will do all I can to make sure that prize money finds the right pockets. Plus, I am sure we can have some that fun along the way.”
He aimed to assure his potential partners that everything was on the level.
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